


(won't) break the man

by wildforce71



Series: Powers 'Verse [11]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, I like doing that, Sometimes it just doesn't catch, but this time was ok, by request, h/c, it's like a mystery play, or a mystery anything I suppose, or a mystery novel, usually anyway, yes that's really all the summary you get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-04 18:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6669505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildforce71/pseuds/wildforce71
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“God only gives us what we can handle,” Aramis says, surprisingly coherent, and falls over.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fayemous13](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Fayemous13).



“No,” Porthos says without looking.

Aramis whines. “You’re hurting.”

“Yes, I know. So are you.”

“No, I…” Aramis weaves dangerously.

Porthos checks the impulse to catch him. Aramis isn’t so far gone that he wouldn’t take the opportunity, and a Healing in the state he’s in might very well kill them both. “Yes, you are. You hit your head, you just don’t remember. You’re concussed and I’m not letting you Heal me when I’m perfectly fine.” His shoulder twinges and he winces.

Aramis makes the unhappy noise again. Porthos ignores it as best he can. They have to find the others; Athos won’t have taken any ill effects from tumbling into the river, but d’Artagnan won’t be so lucky, and he can’t deal with Aramis alone for much longer. Sooner or later he’ll have to rest.

“Mission like this’d only ever happen to us,” he says, not really expecting an answer. He’s fairly sure none of the other teams ended up fighting for their lives _after_ delivering a letter.

“God only gives us what we can handle,” Aramis says, surprisingly coherent, and falls over.

Porthos checks his gloves before heaving Aramis upright. His shoulder screams and Aramis twists to try to get to it and they both almost go over again. “No!” he snaps, and Aramis hesitates long enough for Porthos to steady him and withdraw again. “No,” he says more gently. “You’re concussed, you can’t do it. You’d usually know that, but you’re concussed right now, so you get a pass. Stop trying to sneak up on me.”

“Amn’t,” Aramis says, dangerously close to sulking.

“You forgot to do it from somewhere I can’t see you.”

It takes Aramis a terrifyingly long time to work that out. “No I’m - didn’t!”

Porthos resettles his sling. It’s not very good, because he dislocated his right shoulder and couldn’t allow Aramis to help him tie it, so it keeps loosening as he walks. He’s considering doing without it; it couldn’t make much difference right now.

Aramis moves to retie it. Porthos almost lets him, but it’s just not worth the risk. “It’s fine, thanks. Let’s keep going.”

“Where are we going?” Aramis is moving very slowly, but Porthos doesn’t want to risk leaving him behind to scout ahead. He might wander off anywhere.

“We’re looking for the others.”

“Where are they?”

“Not sure yet. We’re going to look along the river banks.”

Aramis looks around, almost walking into a tree before he corrects. “Don’t see banks.”

“We’re getting there.” Porthos is glad Aramis doesn’t seem to be hurting right now, but it might have made him easier to handle.

“Is it this way?” He starts off in a random - and completely wrong - direction.

“Not that way, ‘Mis!”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s the wrong way.”

Aramis scowls, coming back towards him. “It looks fine to me.”

“It’s uphill, Aramis.”

“So?!”

“Let’s just try my way, and if we don’t find the river, we can try your way, hmm?” Again he thinks about looking for shelter and waiting for the others to find them, but he’s almost sure he and Aramis are in better shape than they are.

Aramis moves to step past him, pauses, and looks at him. “You’re hurt!”

“Yes, I - no,” he says firmly, pushing Aramis’ hand away. “Yes, I’m hurt, no, you can’t do anything about it right now. We have to find the others first, so they can protect us.”

Aramis pats at his waist. “I don’t have my sword.”

“No.” It’s in some bandit’s body, Porthos thinks, but he’s not sure. “That’s why we need the others. We can find your sword after we find them.”

Aramis doesn’t quite seem to get it, but he goes in the direction Porthos points. Porthos takes a deep breath, adjusts his sling again and goes after him. Hopefully they’ll find the others before too long.

 

d’Artagnan is shivering.

He’s as far from Athos as he can get without entirely leaving the circle of heat from the fire, but Athos can still hear his teeth chattering. It had taken him a while to persuade the younger man to move even that far away; but he’s going to die, they both know it, and they can’t risk letting d’Artagnan get dragged down with him, not when the others haven’t found them yet.

Aramis’ sword is lying beside Athos. d’Artagnan had controlled himself long enough to pull it out of Athos’ side, but he’d immediately dropped it and Athos hasn’t tried to make him move it. It can’t be easy to handle something that wounded him so deeply.

Part of him knows he should allow himself to die. The sooner he dies, the sooner he’ll be back, healthy and able to help. Like this he’s only holding d’Artagnan back. But the other part of him can’t bear the thought of leaving him alone here. d’Artagnan isn’t injured, just bumps and bruises, but he’s soaking wet and freezing and they have no blankets or dry clothes. So is Athos, of course, but he expects he’ll be mostly dry by the time he revives.

“Go on,” d’Artagnan says. His voice is steady but the effort is obvious. “You’re hurting. Just stop fighting. You’ll be back soon.”

“Not the point,” he breathes, keeping his breath shallow so he doesn’t choke on the blood slowly filling his lungs.

“Athos, just do it. I won’t fall, I’m being careful. Go on.”

He’s not going to be able to fight it much longer. Athos pushes all his protective feelings, his worry for d’Artagnan, his conviction that they’ll be fine, to the front of his mind. He hears d’Artagnan’s breath hitch as he feels it.

It’s not much to do for him, but Athos is so tired now, and it’s so hard to breathe. He lets his head fall back. Just to rest for a moment, and then he’ll be able to concentrate again. Just for a moment.

Just a moment…


	2. Chapter 2

Aramis trips over the signs of someone leaving the river. The pain he wasn’t feeling earlier has hit with a vengeance and Porthos is having trouble keeping him moving; Aramis badly wants to stop and rest and Porthos can’t touch him to get him back on his feet.

They follow the barely there trail, slogging away from the bank into the trees. Porthos is watching for the kind of shelter Athos usually chooses, but he still almost misses them. It’s the choked noise from Aramis that gets his attention.

The remains of a fire are smoking fitfully in the centre of a small clearing. Athos and d’Artagnan are lying beside it, curled tightly together, Athos sheltering d’Artagnan. Frost glitters in their hair and clothes.

Aramis starts towards them; Porthos catches his arm, swinging him around and, from the looks of it, nearly making him throw up. “Wait,” he says firmly, “let me see first. Got it?”

“Got it,” Aramis says, just above a whisper.

Porthos refuses to think that Aramis is so pliable because he knows he can’t help. He’s just too far away to sense them. He keeps telling himself that as he crunches over the frozen grass to kneel beside them.

Athos is cold. Porthos knows before he even checks the pulse. Just the touch of him is enough. He doesn’t know how long the other man’s been dead, though, or how long it might be before he wakes. Did he die while d’Artagnan was curled against him like that? Even if the younger man’s alive, he might have fallen after Athos, he’s come close before…

d’Artagnan’s barely any warmer, but there’s a thready pulse under the skin. Porthos breathes a sigh of relief. Doesn’t answer the other question - and d’Artagnan isn’t showing any inclination to wake, even with Porthos pawing at him - but at least he’s alive.

He turns on his heels to look at Aramis. “He’s alive, but he’s froze nearly solid. Can you find some wood? Are you able?”

“Able enough.”

“Don’t come too close.”

“No,” he murmurs, turning away. “I won’t come too close.”

Porthos watches until he’s sure Aramis isn’t going too far into the trees. Then he sets about untangling his teammates. d’Artagnan will never regain any warmth with a corpse on his back.

 

It’s a pretty pathetic pile of wood, but Aramis is feeling nauseous and dizzy and bending up and down for the wood isn’t helping. He piles it on the edge of the clearing and adds his cloak.

“No,” Porthos says. “You need that, you won’t get any heat from the fire.”

“d’Artagnan’s freezing to death.” He’s far enough away that it’s just a faint buzz against his skin, but it’s clear enough. “Is he hurt?”

“No. Bruises, he’ll probably have a headache, but no. Nothing serious.” Porthos gets the fire going again and turns to start stripping d’Artagnan. “I’m going to have to lie down with him for a bit. You sit with Athos, yeah? He could be waking up any time.”

Aramis grimaces. He’s starting to get tired of the orders. “I can’t help him, I could -”

“No,” Porthos says, and Aramis very nearly snarls. He’s a Healer! Keeping himself from Healing is not just difficult, it’s _torture_. Surely Porthos understands -

“No,” Porthos repeats when he takes a step forward. “Sit with Athos. Get some sleep if you can. And put your bloody cloak back on! I can’t handle all of you hurt!”

“You wouldn’t have to if you’d just let -”

“SIT!”

Aramis scowls, turning on his heel. “We need more wood.”

“Aramis,” Porthos calls after him, but he doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t get very far before he has to stop, leaning against the nearest tree to try and catch his balance. It’s cold out here; he watches his breath mist in front of him for a couple of minutes. At least there’s no snow on the ground. That would make things so much worse.

His head throbs viciously. He starts to reach for it before catching himself; the blood’s mostly dried, but Porthos’ stitches are rough at the best of times and worse now and he doesn’t want to poke at them. Not for the first time, he envies Athos his Ability. Things would be going much better by now if he had it.

...or he and Porthos would be stuck somewhere while he was dead and Porthos had a dislocated shoulder, and things would be much worse.

...and if Porthos had let him Heal his shoulder, he’d be effectively dead anyway while he recovered. _If_ he recovered.

...he hates it when Porthos is right. Especially when he’s right about something this important. The man never gloats. It’s not natural.

He pushes himself away from the tree, catching his balance, and heads back to the clearing. He doesn’t speak, just settles next to Athos’ body and pulls his cloak around himself.

He thinks he sees Porthos relax, but it might be a trick of the light.


	3. Chapter 3

d’Artagnan feels warm when he wakes. The fire’s blazing somewhere nearby - he can hear it, feel it on his skin - and someone warm and solid is behind him. “ ‘thos?” he mumbles, trying and failing to force his eyes open.

Athos doesn’t answer, but a warm hand squeezes his shoulder for a moment.

“Good,” he murmurs, already starting to sink again. “Hate it when you die. ‘Fraid you won’t come back…”

He drifts for a long time, aware of the warmth in front and behind and not much else. Athos gives him something to drink every so often and he sips without waking. There’s silence apart from the crackling fire and an occasional bird somewhere far away.

It’s afternoon when he wakes properly; the sun is already going down and the shadows are gathering in the clearing. Athos is still warm behind him, but the fire’s little more than embers now.

“Need more wood,” he murmurs, watching the last tiny flame cling to life.

“Yeah.”

The voice is behind him, but it’s Porthos, not Athos. d’Artagnan starts to turn in surprise. “Don’t,” Porthos adds, “you’ve been asleep a while. How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know, I - where’s Athos?”

“He’s not woken up yet.”

“Woken - what? He was here…”

“He’s been dead a while,” Aramis says from somewhere on the edge of the clearing. “Porthos has been keeping you warm.”

“Oh,” d’Artagnan manages. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

“Doesn’t matter,” Porthos assures him, letting go and sitting up. “But now you’re a bit more awake, how are you feeling?”

“Confused,” he mutters, raising his voice to add “Cold, still, but not as bad. Achy where I got hit.”

“Cold gets in your muscles,” Porthos agrees. “Nothing broken inside?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Good. I’m going to get some more wood, then. I’ll be back to you in a bit.” He crouches beside d’Artagnan. “Aramis took a hit to the head. He’s all right, but I won’t let him Heal either of us until it clears up; it could be dangerous for everyone. He keeps forgetting why he’s not allowed, so just keep an eye, yeah?”

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan agrees. “Are you hurt?”

“Pulled my shoulder out of joint. I’ve popped it back in, but you know how that goes.”

d’Artagnan swallows hard. He’s never dislocated his shoulder, but he’s heard stories. “I can go for the wood…”

“You can’t stand, lad.” There’s no derision in the tone, it’s just matter of fact. “I won’t be long, I’m just going to get enough to heat up some food. We can all do with it. Hopefully by then Athos’ll be awake.” He pushes to his feet and heads into the treeline.

“Are you hurt, d’Artagnan?” Aramis asks from across the clearing.

“Just cold,” d’Artagnan lies. Aramis’ feelings are confusing, unsettled, but he thinks the other man believes him. He drags a cloak up around his shoulders and waits for Porthos to come back.

 

Aramis is leaning over Athos when he wakes. He blinks a couple of times and then sits up sharply. “d’Artagnan?”

d’Artagnan waves from his seat beside the fire, wrapped in Porthos’ cloak. “Here. I’m fine. Just stiff.”

Porthos comes out of the treeline, dumping an armload of wood beside the fire and crouching to build it up again. “See you’re back with us,” he says in Athos’ direction. “Feeling all right?”

“Fine and fit,” Athos tells him. “You?” He hasn’t missed the sling.

“Nothing serious. Aramis, sit down.”

Athos steadies him, frowning. “Concussion?”

“No,” Aramis says.

“Yes,” Porthos says over him. “He keeps forgetting about it and trying to Heal us, and he’s not allowed, so can you keep an eye on him?”

“I’m fine!”

“I’ll watch him,” Athos agrees. Porthos nods, turning back to the fire and coaxing it into a proper blaze.

He brings over a rabbit and dagger to Athos, who goes about skinning it. Porthos skewers slices of meat and cooks them over the fire, making d’Artagnan eat first, then Aramis. Once all the meat’s gone he comes to sit near Aramis, watching him. “Where are we?”

Aramis rolls his eyes but answers all the questions - where and why and his mother’s name and all the others they use for this - and tells them that he feels a little queasy, still, but the food’s helped and his head’s clearing. Porthos nods as he listens.

“Good. Get some sleep - some proper sleep - and if you’re all right when you wake up, you can Heal me.”

“Oooh, can I?” Aramis says with a snort, lying down. “Come on, Athos, you can be my blanket.”

“Oooh, can I?” Athos says dryly, settling beside him. d’Artagnan clearly needs the fire more than they do, but that doesn’t make it any less chilly and damp out here and two cloaks aren’t much barrier against it.

He doesn’t sleep much, but Aramis does, deeply and evenly for several hours. The moon’s set and the sky is starting to brighten towards dawn when he wakes, shivering.

“Sorry,” Athos murmurs.

Aramis shrugs, burrowing against him. “Next time another team takes the letters.”

“Only the hardest jobs for the best team. How are you feeling?”

“Cold,” he mutters. “A little headache still, but not so bad.”

“And you remember what’s happened?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Athos is silent for a moment. “Your sword’s here somewhere,” he says abruptly.

“What?”

“I - brought it with me, by accident. I didn’t realise I had it, I must have picked it up. It’s around somewhere.”

“Thank you,” Aramis says after a moment. Athos makes a mental note to make sure that d’Artagnan doesn’t say anything. No matter that it wasn’t Aramis’ hand on the sword, he’ll still blame himself.

“If you’re going to keep us awake,” Porthos says from nearer the fire, “you may as well come take care of this.”

Aramis smiles, sitting up. “Some people are so needy. Have you noticed this, Athos?”

“Never satisfied,” Athos agrees, standing to help him. He’s far less stiff than Aramis is. “Don’t Heal me, Heal me, don’t Heal me…”

“Just can’t keep them happy,” Aramis says, kneeling beside Porthos. d’Artagnan is laughing silently, badly pretending to be asleep.

Athos goes looking for the sword. They’ll need that when they start for home together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.
> 
> Currently, this is the last thing I have written for this 'Verse. I have some ideas, but they all need new canon before I can write anything, and I'm being a good girl and watching on the Beeb. fandomlver tells me she has something in the works, but she doesn't know when it'll be ready.
> 
> So I am thinking about - _thinking_ about! - opening the 'verse up to other authors. I would maintain veto, just in case you guys accidentally contradict something I've planned, but apart from that I'd be involved as little or as much as you liked.
> 
> Before I make any decisions, let's have a quick informal poll. Hands up anyone who thinks they'd like to try and write for the Powers!'verse?


End file.
